


Masked Feelings

by tansybells



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/F, False Identity, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, Mistaken Identity, Post-Canon, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 00:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30080448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tansybells/pseuds/tansybells
Summary: “I’m sorry, but,” Marianne says, wringing her hands nervously, "um, I thought I knew everyone on the guest list. May I ask who you are?”The decorations suspended in the lady's pale brown hair sway gently as she cants her head in acquiescence. Behind her porcelain mask, the corners of lilac eyes crinkle with a smile; relief washes over Marianne.“You may call me… Ionia."Marianne holds a masquerade to celebrate her new role as Marchioness of the Edmund estate, but when a guest arrives that is too familiar for words—yet unrecognizable all the same—she finds she has a mystery to solve as well.
Relationships: Marianne von Edmund/Edelgard von Hresvelg
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25
Collections: A Lost Ballroom of Gold





	Masked Feelings

Despite her most earnest efforts, Marianne can’t wrap her mind around the evening’s festivities. It feels bizarre to think that her adoptive father has finally decided to step down from his role as the head of house Edmund, but considering the years that he’s put into training her for succession, she can’t say that her ascension is in any way a surprise.

What is a surprise, however, is how much the guests are interested in _her._ It makes sense, she supposes, that they would want to get on her good side now that she’s in charge of the estate, but considering the way that she’d never expected to make it this far in life in general, the whole ordeal is more than a little overwhelming.

It doesn’t help that everyone—herself included—is wearing a mask. It had been a stipulation for attendance, per the nature of a masquerade ball, but it carries the unfortunate side effect of her guests blending together in an amalgam of color.

“Thank you for coming,” Marianne says as she greets each of her guests. Most of them are younger nobles like herself, which makes sense when considering the recent rash of predecessors either stepping down or being forcefully removed from their positions.

They have the Emperor to thank for that, Marianne supposes.

She moves on to the next guest, grasping their hands gently within her own as she greets them in turn. “It means a great deal to me that you’ve come to celebrate with me.”

The noble in front of her smiles kindly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Marianne smiles back as she tries to put a name to the face behind the gold-and-porcelain mask. It’s a pretty face, gentle and soft with the kindness of recent years, though there’s a tiredness darkening a pair of lilac-colored eyes that Marianne finds familiar.

Lilac-colored eyes that match those of the Emperor, actually. Marianne hesitates, though she does her best to keep it from showing in her expression. Her guest certainly _does_ look like the Emperor, but for one critical feature.

Her hair is a light brown that, while indeed beautiful, is nothing like the famously pale hue of her former class leader’s.

Marianne would know. She hadn’t had the strength and confidence to sit near the front of the class when they were students together, but Edelgard had. She’d spent _hours_ staring at the pale, gentle waves of the Imperial Princess’ hair, wondering what it would be like to comb her fingers through its lengths, to have her own hair brushed as lovingly as she could only assume Edelgard brushed hers.

Edelgard had been leagues away from Marianne; that was a fact. She’d had a self-assurance that drew Marianne to her, but despite the broad differences that separated them, Edelgard had done so much for her. She’d welcomed her to the Black Eagles with open arms, given Marianne the _home_ that she’d so long believed she wasn’t deserving of.

So of course, Marianne had extended an invitation to her liege when preparations for the celebration had begun. She had never received a response, though, so she had been operating under the assumption that the Emperor was far too busy to attend such an unimportant gathering.

Marianne shakes her head lightly, the dangling pearls and baubles suspended in her hair jostling gently as she urges her memories of the past to leave her be, and lifts her smile back to her guest.

“I’m sorry, but,” Marianne says, letting her guest’s hands go in favor of wringing her hands together before the front paneling of her gown, “um, I thought I knew everyone on the guest list. May I ask who you are?”

She can’t allow herself to appear incompetent, not when this entire celebration is centered around her becoming head of the Edmund estate. She only _hopes_ that her guest can empathize with her, and doesn’t hold her inexperience against her.

But after a thoughtful click of her tongue, the lady cants her head, gives a smile of her own, and relief washes over Marianne.

“You may call me… Ionia,” she says.

The name rings familiar in Marianne’s ears, like she’s heard it somewhere, but she can’t exactly place it. Regardless, she takes the faint recognition to mean that Ionia must be involved with minor nobility, or perhaps a business that she sponsors, so to avoid being even more impolite, she curtseys slightly.

“Thank you for attending, Lady Ionia,” she says with a dip of her head. “Your support means everything to me, and I hope that I can prove myself worthy of continuing our good relationship.”

“I have no doubt that you shall.” Ionia places one gloved hand over her heart and bows in return. “Your role in the unification of Fódlan proved that you have a good head on your shoulders, Marchioness Edmund, and if you continue along the same path, I’m certain that your future holds nothing but success.”

Marianne feels her cheeks begin to heat up, and not for the first time, she’s grateful for having commissioned a mask that reaches three quarters of the way down her face as opposed to the traditional half. She feels protected, safe from having her emotions put on display for all of her guests to see, and so she feels more at ease with having so many visitors at her home.

“I hope you enjoy your time at my estate,” she says, gesturing out towards where all of her already-acknowledged guests are mingling. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your time here more enjoyable.”

“Of course.”

Then, without warning of any sort, Ionia reaches out to take Marianne’s hands. She holds them gently, preciously, like she’s holding a delicate flower, then lifts them up high enough that she can brush her lips against Marianne’s knuckles. Marianne can’t stop herself from gasping at the sudden display of—affection? Fealty?—and she withdraws her hands from Ionia’s.

“Ahem. Yes.” Feeling quite embarrassed, Marianne tangles her hands in the thickly embroidered fabric of her dress. “Now, um, if you’ll excuse me—”

“You have other guests to greet, I’m sure.” Ionia looks past Marianne, towards the throng of guests partaking in refreshments and enjoying the music. “Thank you for humoring me, Marchioness Edmund. I hope we will have the opportunity to converse again before the night is through.”

With that, she sweeps away in a flurry of dark red and cream satin, and Marianne is left to finish extending her greetings to her remaining guests. Yet all the while, she finds her gaze wandering back towards Ionia, a question ever-present at the forefront of her thoughts..

The resemblance to her Emperor is a striking one, she can’t deny that. Her eyes, her voice, even the color of her gown bring to mind Edelgard’s imposing figure. But why the color of her hair is different, she has no idea—not when Edelgard had always carried such pride for her hair and cared for it so. Is Ionia a sibling of the Emperor, perhaps? Had she been sent as part of the Emperor’s delegation? But if that were the case, why wouldn’t she have announced as such during her introduction?

Ionia was a mystery, and judging by the way she smiled every time she caught Marianne looking her way, she delighted in just that.

* * *

When all is said and done, and no more guests clamor for her attention, Marianne lets herself deflate. She knows from watching her adoptive father at his own events that not only are such moments of respite few and far between, but that they rarely last for more than a few minutes at a time. So to take advantage of her brief solitude, Marianne wraps her arms around herself and hurries towards the refreshments table. As if prepared for this very moment of desperation on Marianne’s part, the servant manning the beverages mixes up a nonalcoholic drink as she approaches and holds it out to her.

Accepting the fluted glass easily, Marianne whispers her thanks, then turns around to face the open courtyard where her guests mingle. From her position on an elevated veranda, she can see that most of her guests seem to be enjoying themselves. Some inspect the statues dotted through the estate, some walk through the gardens, but as she turns to the side, she sees that a decent number are taking advantage of the easy music provided by the quartet performing near the fountain.

Most interesting, though, is that among the pastels and dark blues that most of her guests wear—likely in homage to the Edmund colors—she keeps catching glimpses of the deep garnet and gold that make up Ionia’s gown. With a sigh, Marianne watches Ionia dance across the cobblestone.

There’s a fluid grace to her motion as she sweeps across the ground, the hem of her dress fluttering enchantingly as she spins and twirls without a care in the world. Flyaway strands of brown hair which have fallen out of her once-elaborate styling breeze about her face, and distantly, Marianne wonders what it might be like to be so close as to be able to stare deeply into the lady’s eyes, tuck those stray hair behind her ears, then lean in and—

Oh, but she doesn’t even _know_ Ionia, not really. There’s something painfully familiar about her, yes, but no matter how hard she searches her mind, she can’t put her finger on Ionia’s identity. Maybe if she _could_ figure out where she knows Ionia from, she’d be able to work up the courage to go over and say something else to the other woman.

Wistfully, Marianne lifts her drink to her lips and lets the cool, fruity cocktail wash her worries away. But her glass is empty far too soon, and after setting it down on a tray, she decides that the mystery has gone on for far too long. This is her first official event as a host, and while she has at least vague knowledge of every other guest, she knows absolutely _nothing_ about Ionia. Without a doubt, that has to change. Her honor as the new Marchioness feels at stake.

With a deep breath and a final, resolute gathering of her strength, Marianne leaves the safety of the refreshments table and begins making her way towards the fountain where the quartet performs. She waits awkwardly for a lull in the music, and when it finally comes, she slips into the crowd of dancing nobles. She steps around couples and singles alike, winding through the maze of color until she finally comes across Ionia.

“Um, I’m sorry to interrupt you,” Marianne starts, as she taps her guest gently on the shoulder, but she doesn’t have the opportunity to apologize further before Ionia twirls around to face her. To her surprise, Ionia breaks into a kind smile and makes use of their new closeness to take Marianne’s lifted hand in her own, then sets her other hand on Marianne's waist. Marianne squeaks at the unexpected touch, Ionia’s gesture, but there’s such a familiarity to it that any distress she might have felt is overridden by Ionia’s care.

“You can make it up to me by being my partner for the next set,” Ionia says, her voice a low rumble that spreads down her arms into Marianne’s own and through her chest. It sends a thrill through Marianne, and she finds herself nodding despite her reservations.

With a delighted chuckle, Ionia sweeps her into the flow of the music. While she takes the leading role, her gaze occasionally flickering down to the ground to make sure the steps they take are the right ones, Marianne in turn struggles to figure out the game that Ionia seems to be playing with her as an unwitting participant.

“I, um, I wanted to say,” she begins awkwardly, “I’m afraid that I misled you earlier tonight.”

“Oh?” Ionia lifts her brows as she glances sidelong at Marianne. “How so?”

Marianne smacks her lips together as she tries to piecemeal together the way she wants to phrase her confession. “I gave you the impression that I, uh, know who you are. That I recognized your name, at least. But, um, the truth is that I really… uh, don’t.”

“You don’t?” To Marianne’s surprise, Ionia just laughs again as she twirls Marianne around to the music wafting through the air. “Well, that’s no surprise.”

Marianne starts, taken aback. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Ionia says with a smile, “you _know_ me. But Ionia isn’t my name.”

Marianne can’t believe her ears. If what Ionia is telling her is true, then she’s basically let a complete stranger into her home! But she’d been let through the front gates with her invitation, so she was _obviously_ someone that had been invited in the first place. She closes her eyes and sighs in frustration.

All of the pieces are there in front of her. She just can’t—she can’t put them all together in a way that makes sense.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers with a shake of her head. “I really don’t know who you are.”

“Then allow me to jog your memory, Marchioness,” Ionia whispers, mere moments before dipping Marianne low and claiming her lips for her own.

Marianne’s knee-jerk reaction is to draw away from Ionia’s kiss, but, once again, the familiarity that’s been following her around all night washes over her and overwhelms her senses. She _knows_ Ionia; she _knows_ her kiss.

She’s brought back to her adolescent years, to a starry night at the window of the Goddess Tower. She’d gone there to escape the frenzied activity of the White Heron Ball, but to her dismay, someone had already laid claim to her sanctuary. It had been then that she’d had the chance to speak with Edelgard, to do more than marvel at her strength from afar, and it had been then that she’d fallen in love with Edelgard’s vision of the future.

And, well, perhaps Edelgard herself.

She remembers a warmth welling up in her chest, as well as a newfound determination to see that vision to fruition by Edelgard’s side, and following Marianne’s whispered question and Edelgard’s whispered permission, Marianne had leaned down to gently, sweetly kiss Edelgard in response.

Ionia’s lips feel just the same as Edelgard’s had, long ago on that fateful night, and despite the different color of her hair, the name that she’d been given, and all the other things that fail to line up, Marianne knows without a doubt that the woman above her is Edelgard herself.

“What happened to your hair—?” Marianne gasps once she and Edelgard part, reaching out to rub the strands of Edelgard’s brown hair between her fingers. Breathless, her lilac eyes aglow behind her mask, Edelgard shakes her head.

“It used to be this color when I was younger, actually,” she says with a chuckle. “It’s quite a long story though.”

Drawing herself up to her full height, Marianne clasps Edelgard’s hands in hers. “I want to hear the whole thing, Edelgard,” she says. “Tell me where you’ve been. Tell me why you’ve been gone so long. Tell me—”

“I will, I will,” Edelgard promises. “Now go; I’m sure there’s other guests vying for your attention.”

Marianne shifts her weight on her feet, humming indecisively. Edelgard has a point, she knows, and there are several other partygoers staring at them curiously, but it’s been _so long_ since she’s seen Edelgard that she’s reluctant to pull away.

In the end, the decision is made for her as she hears another guest calling out for her. With a deep breath, Marianne squeezes Edelgard’s hands tightly.

“Promise me you’ll stay after the party ends,” she urges Edelgard, even as she’s drawn away by her responsibilities. Edelgard nods in agreement, and Marianne is whisked away.

Being Marchioness is no longer the most bizarre thing that Marianne can think of. No, no—that honor has been quite handily given over to her sudden reunion with Edelgard. But as strange as the evening has turned out to be so far, Marianne doesn’t think it’s been all that bad.

She glances back over her shoulder to where Edelgard enjoys herself and her brief anonymity for the night, then returns to caring for her guests with a smile.

No, it hasn’t been bad in the slightest.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I've been quite absent recently, but I promise I haven't stopped writing. I simply have quite a few things going on behind the scenes—this fic, for example! I finished it a few months ago, but as it's part of a zine, I wasn't able to publish it til now. There's a number of such examples at the moment ^-^
> 
> That said, A Lost Ballroom of Gold, a masquerade-themed zine centered around rarepairs was just released today! There's a lot of art and fics, and if you're interested, [you can read the whole thing for free right here!](https://anyflip.com/mjnnw/chou/)
> 
> I'd love to know your thoughts. Thank you for reading! ♥


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